"We'll get you a chair, Mr. Otway----"
"No, no! Let me sit or lie here on the grass. It's all I feel fit
for after the climb."
He threw himself down, nearer to Helen than to her friend, and the
talk became livelier than before his arrival. Irene emerged from the
taciturnity into which she had more and more withdrawn, and March,
not an unobservant man, evidently noted this, and reflected upon it.
He had at first regarded the new-comer with a civil aloofness, as
one not of his world; presently, he seemed to ask himself to what
world the singular being might belong--a man who knew how to
behave himself, and whose talk implied more than common
_savoir-vivre_, yet who differed in such noticeable points from an
Englishman of the leisured class.
Helen was in a mischievous mood. She broached the subject of grouse,
addressing to Otway an ambiguous remark which led March to ask, with
veiled surprise, whether he was a sportsman.
"Mr. Otway's taste is for bigger game," she exclaimed. before Piers
could reply. "He lives in hope of potting Russians on the Indian
frontier."
"Well, I can sympathise with him in that," said the large-limbed
man, puzzled but smiling. "He'll probably have a chance before very
long."
No sooner had he spoken that a scarlet confusion glowed upon his
face. In speculating about Otway, he had for the moment forgotten
his cousin's name.
"I _beg_ your pardon, Helen!--What an idiot I am Of course you
were joking, and I----"
"Don't, don't, don't apologise, Edward! Tell truth and shame--your
Russian relatives! I like you all the better for it.
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